If I’m going to come out as Sabrina soon, it’s time to start being myself. I’ll tell Andrew first, of course, but I don’t want to lie to the queen anymore. I like and respect her too much.
“It’s what I’m going to do for you,” she says, opening the door wide to reveal two women wearing pale pink smock coats with a wheeled cabinet between them. “I thought future mother and daughter-in-law facials and manicures would be a nice way to spend the afternoon. I hate that we haven’t had time to sculpt together, but this might be nearly as good. And we’ll make sure we stay out of everyone’s way while they’re packing up for the picnic.”
“That sounds wonderful.” I force a smile. I haven’t had a manicure in ages, and a facial in even longer, but I know I won’t be able to enjoy a single second of this very generous pampering.
I need to get to Andrew before the ceremony starts and tell him the truth, but I can’t very well say to the queen, “Thanks, but no thanks, I have other plans, lady.” You don’t tell a queen, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Even a queen as cool as Felicity.
I’ll just have to bide my time and make a break for Andrew at the earliest opportunity. I’ll have one before sunset tonight.
Surely…
Or so I tell myself as I shut the door behind the queen, sealing us both inside my gilded cage.
Chapter Twenty-One
Andrew
I’m fucking crazy.
I can’t do this. I really fucking can’t.
I’m supposed to be the sane person in my family of mad hatters. I’m the steady hand on the wheel of the ship. I’m the person who tells Jeffrey he can’t follow the thug who tried to mug us in Madrid down a dark alley where more punks might be waiting to jump him and who advises Nick against hacking into his ex-girlfriend’s website to Photoshop a mullet onto all her model portfolio pictures.
I’m not the guy who blends strawberries into a mango-passion fruit puree that he mixes with sweet dark rum and pineapple liqueur, masking the forbidden fruit so completely that not even a world-class gourmand would be able to taste the hint of berry.
I’m not the guy who fills his flask with what Poison Your Fiancée Juice and tucks it into the front pocket of his embroidered linen coat.
The little old ladies who spent a hundred hours making this traditional Gallantian ceremonial wedding suit would be horrified if they knew what kind of man is wearing it tonight. But it’s like I’m possessed. Even as one part of me shouts to stop this before I go way too far, the other part is stealing oral steroids and an EpiPen from the royal infirmary so I’ll be ready to treat Lizzy immediately if she starts to react.
I only put three berries in the mix, and I don’t intend to let her have more than a sip or two from the flask. And the picnic site is barely a five-minute horseback ride from a main thoroughfare. If need be, I can have Lizzy at a nearby petrol station awaiting an ambulance in not much more time than it will take to call for help.
But you still shouldn’t do it. What the hell is wrong with you?
What the hell is wrong with me is that I’m in love, and, apparently, it makes you as crazy as all the songs say.
I join Nick is his room while he gets ready, too anxious to sit by my own window and watch media representatives from across the world gathering outside the gates, waiting to be swept by metal detector wands and led to the press bleachers in a little over an hour. No matter what happens with Operation Strawberry, by tomorrow morning, pictures of the engagement will be everywhere.
There aren’t many royals left in the world. When one of us gets married, it’s a big fucking deal, even when the future man and wife in question aren’t young, beautiful, and highly photogenic.
“What if I kicked them all out?” I muse from the settee in the corner of Nick’s room, taking another gulp of the scotch he poured for me when I appeared at his door, looking “cagey.”
“Who? Our cousins?” Nick calls from the bathroom where he’s shaving. “I mean, Mother would be furious, but I say begin as you intend to continue. Having fewer stupidly distant relatives hanging around eating all our food and drinking all our liquor and selling stories about private family gatherings to the tabloids sounds good to me.”
“No, not the cousins, though that isn’t a bad idea.” I give my drink a thoughtful swirl. “I was thinking of the press. Calling off the wedding will be a lot less dramatic if there aren’t pictures of whoever she is and me looking madly in love plastered all over the internet.”
Nick sticks his head out of the bathroom, one-half of his face still covered in shaving cream. “Then stop looking at her like you’re madly in love, asshole.”
“Shut up,” I warn, glaring at him over the rim of my glass.
“I will not.” He points his razor my way. “If you’re in love with her, you’re in love with her. Does it really matter if you’ve got the wrong twin?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand just fine,” Nick says. “I also understand that if you plan to poison your fiancée, and I know about it beforehand, that makes me an accessory to attempted murder. Is that why you told me you’ve decided not to trick her into eating strawberries?”
“No,” I lie.
“Because you shouldn’t be protecting me, Andrew. You should be protecting her. That’s a husband’s job—to protect the woman he loves.”
“And what do you know about it?” I ask, beginning to feel the scotch buzzing through my veins. “When have you been in love, Nickolas? Really in love, not one of those crushes you fall face-first into every time a nice pair of tits walks by?”
“Is that why you want to call it off?” he shoots back, ignoring my question. “Because Lizzy’s tits aren’t as big as your usual?”
I sit up straight, my feet thudding down on the floor with an ominous double boom. “Don’t talk about her like that. Ever. Do you understand me?”
Nickolas, the little bastard, just grins. “Good. If you love her too much to let me talk about her tits, I trust that you’re not going to poison her.”
“Seriously. Not another word,” I say, shooting daggers at him with my eyes.
He rolls his. “Yes, my liege and future king, your wish is my command, yadda yadda.” He pops back into the bathroom before adding in a louder voice. “You should ease up on that scotch, or you’re going to be too drunk to stay on your horse.”
“I’ll be as drunk as I want to be,” I snap back.
Drunk enough to drown out the voice of my conscience and do what I have to do to reclaim control over my life.
Even if I’ll hate myself for it later.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sabrina
The moment Felicity leaves my room, I race to get dressed, but it turns out a traditional Gallantian engagement ensemble isn’t something a girl can get into on her own.
Just as I’m wrestling with the heavily embroidered corset, a maid knocks on my door and announces that she’s here to help. And I’m grateful, I really am, even though she ties the corset so tight I can barely breathe and insists I wear the itchy white woolen knee socks instead of the cotton ones I’d secretly planned to wear instead—but by the time she’s finished, I’m down to the wire.